


Above the best

by Mis_Shapes



Series: Theon Greyjoy Kink Bingo [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon Compliant, Erogenous dick scar smut, Face-Sitting, M/M, Oral Sex, Past Mutilation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon, Rimming, Scars, Smut, post castration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:14:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27330286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mis_Shapes/pseuds/Mis_Shapes
Summary: Patrek's hand searches out bare skin; a difficult feat this early in the spring, and pushes up Theon’s nightshirt to dip underneath and caress his side. There had been a time when Theon would have pushed it away, but Patrek insists the marks are no different to his own battle scars. He demonstrates with no hesitation the joys of the contrasting sensitivity they bring under his mouth.The tickling breath and nose at his neck have Theon shiver more than the undressing. His bed, beneath the furs, is always warm when the heir to Seagard visits. Patrek makes sure of that. Maintaining diplomatic ties has taken on a whole new meaning. Asha japes that the raids only occur between himself and young Riverlander in the bedroom these days.TGKB 'Scars' square fill
Relationships: Theon Greyjoy/Patrek Mallister
Series: Theon Greyjoy Kink Bingo [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1995442
Comments: 11
Kudos: 22
Collections: Theon Greyjoy Kink Bingo





	Above the best

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not really sure what came over me here. I had scars on my card and the ficlet I intended to follow up on and...
> 
> I have no idea what I'm doing title wise so we're going to have to roll with a House Mallister pun for now.

Theon stirs to the press of lips, warm and soft, against the nape of his neck. Arms encircle him, pulling him just enough to have his back pressed up against the hard torso behind him.

“Mmm,” he murmurs encouragingly, smiling when Patrek kisses and sucks at his collar, stopping short of marking him. “Time‘s it?”

“Early,” responds Patrek in a whisper. His hand searches out bare skin; a difficult feat this early in the spring, and pushes up Theon’s nightshirt to dip underneath and caress his side. There had been a time when Theon would have pushed it away, but Patrek insists the marks are no different to his own battle scars. He demonstrates with no hesitation the joys of the contrasting sensitivity they bring under his mouth.

The tickling breath and nose at his neck have Theon shiver more than the undressing. His bed, beneath the furs, is always warm when the heir to Seagard visits. Patrek makes sure of that. Maintaining diplomatic ties has taken on a whole new meaning. Asha japes that the raids only occur between himself and young Riverlander in the bedroom these days.

Eyes shut, he turns in Patrek’s strong arms to seek out a kiss and grins at the squeeze of a hand on his buttock and the way it pulls him closer to make clear the desire behind this rousing. The other hand falls from Theon’s hair to his jaw, drawing him in. Lips parting on instinct at the touch, Theon succumbs to Patrek’s leisurely advances, which are a divergence from the desperation there had been the night before though the faint taste of apple wine remains.

“I should go,” Theon reasons when he has the wherewithal to take in the sun creeping across the room, willing Patrek to argue otherwise.

“Not yet,” Patrek tells him and kisses him once more. When he breaks away, he ghosts his lips along Theon’s jaw and down his neck with a graze of light stubble. He mumbles against his skin, “we have time,” and ooches slightly down, kissing where the shirt parts to reveal a little chest. The drift of his hand tells Theon he doesn’t mistake his intentions.

Threading his fingers, bar the one missing, of his left hand through Patrek’s short hair, Theon peeks through heavy-lidded eyes and is greeted by the grey-blue of his companion’s own looking up at him expectantly, accompanied with a mischievous smile. He’s always been able to count on Patrek matching his own wants.

Patrek’s tongue traces the marks left across his chest and belly, alternating between short flicks and those that are flat and sweep across his bare skin. The wet stripes and the warmth of his mouth leave the scars soothed. One of his hands encourages the parting of Theon’s legs with soft strokes along his thighs, and then he has cunningly slipped between them. The weight and heat of Patrek’s body against his groin taunt him, promising more.

Impatient, Theon rolls his hips, chasing the friction of Patrek’s light chest hair against the scar tissue between his legs. “We don’t have this much time,” he complains in jest and flashes a smirk when the green lander sinks lower.

It’s completely and utterly predictable how Patrek grins against his skin when Theon’s hips jerk in response to lips at the stump left where he’d been cut. Smug bastard. He’d had exactly the same reaction when he’d found out just how much Theon had liked it the very first time. Well, just after mild surprise. It had taken just a few breathy moans as a result of a thigh against him during a kiss for Patrek to catch on.

Leaving his stones was supposed to leave him frustrated, so it feels like a victory of sorts when Patrek takes one after the other into his mouth and rolls them on his tongue. 

Theon feels guilty when his hand instinctively tightens its grip in Patrek’s hair, holding him close, begging him not to stop, it must hurt, but Patrek only groans like it’s one of the best things he’s felt, sending vibrations through him, and Theon’s feet slide up the bed while his back arches.

Patrek’s own hand seeks his free one, linking their fingers as he licks tenderly, responding to the gentle squeezes of encouragement.

“Drowned God, that feels good,” Theon murmurs between moans. His eyebrows meet at the bliss wrought over him by Patrek’s fingers gently massaging the spot behind his balls he has in his palm. “I’m not going to last much longer,” he whispers and feels the brush of the opposite thumb across his knuckles letting him know he’s heard. 

It took a long time for him to let himself just enjoy it the first half dozen times or so; struggling to get past the idea that he’s anything other than hideous, thinking that Patrek can’t possibly enjoy doing it - no matter how enthusiastic, and dwelling in the past. 

This is now all so beautifully common for when the young Mallister is around that he’s shocked when his hips are seized and Patrek encourages him to roll until he finds himself with a knee on either side of Patrek’s head. A large calloused hand kneads his buttocks. It nudges him, urges him to rock against the mouth beneath while the other returns to its caress.

“Fuck,” he breathes, removing his shirt over his head purely so that he can gain a better look down at the sandy haired head between his thighs, cheeks heating up. The air is cold, but Patreks body - his hands, arms, chest, and last, but certainly not least, his mouth - is deliciously warm. He’s going to come before he’s even gotten anywhere close to giving him a helping hand. Lifting himself up on his knees, he pushes Patrek’s face gently back away when he follows, sweeping back his hair. 

“Is something wrong? Sorry, I thought…” Seeing Theon’s expression, Patrek’s tension melts and he lets himself sink back against the furs. His hands explore Theon’s body lazily. The look in his eyes, the smile on his face, is almost enough for Theon to imagine nothing has changed since they first shared a bed. “I thought we were in a rush,” he teases.

Theon drags his thumb over Patrek’s lips. He feels them fall lax beneath his touch, allowing him free reign, the sweep of the tongue that toys with him when he dips it inside. And soon his mouth is all over his hand, taking fingers in one after the other, lapping between them.

“I think I could spill from this alone.”

“As long as you do it on my face,” Patrek tells him with a grin and a wink. 

Theon groans, shuddering just at the thought of it. “Seven fucking hells.” He doesn’t need to be told twice. Seating himself on the wet heat of Patrek’s mouth he rocks, moaning at the feel of the silky slip of the tongue against his scar and tight balls. He loses any kind of willpower to go easy when Patrek’s hands part his arse cheeks, he shuffles lower in the bed and flicks his wet tongue over his hole.

Patrek rolls his tongue around the ring, dipping in the tip and that’s all it takes; he’s fucking himself against it and Patrek’s drool covered face with little restraint, hand buried in Patrek’s hair, until he can bear it no longer. His fingers are stroking the scar covered mound slick with spit when the knocking at the door begins. 

Patrek’s hands hold him tight when he jolts, sensing that he might be tempted to give in to his squire's insistence. It’s the desperation the press of his fingertips portray that push him over the edge. That and perhaps the danger of getting caught… though that’s probably better described as excitement. Those knocks and the lack of calls accompanying them can only be one person.

He bites back a cry when he spills, spurting in pale ribbons and leaving Patrek gasping and his face covered in his seed. But, still, he is not released until Patrek has licked him clean, thighs shuddering on either side of his head.

“Fuck,” he repeats when he’s freed and then again when his feet hit the wooden floorboards and he feels his legs might collapse underneath him. To Wex, outside, he shouts, “I’m coming, I’m coming!” 

But it's very difficult to dress or do anything else for that matter while he can instead watch Patrek pumping his fist around his cock and the way his muscles quiver and face contorts with pleasure. Neither jerkin nor britches yet laced, he ignores his duty in favour of the show, pressing his tongue to the scars earnt in battles he should’ve stayed and fought.


End file.
